


The King Returns

by chibifanwriter



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibifanwriter/pseuds/chibifanwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wheel's stopped and the reincarnation cycle's stalled. Arthur's returned and all hell's about to break loose.</p><p>Merlin's clinging tight to the ride and hoping this life will work out better than all the one's previously. Also, there are aliens, big-eyed magical duckling-like warlocks, and a whole boat load of issues he's not going to talk about, thanks ever so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WIP! Hope you'll stick along for the ride.
> 
> I've mashed up the series and Arthurian legend, and pretty much disregarded series three. So, it's a future fic that doesn't take into account series three and onward. You've been warned! If you're still willing to carry on, thanks, and I hope you enjoy the fic.
> 
>  
> 
> _ _ _ _ _ _ 
> 
> I do not give permission for this work to be re-posted to any other site, such as Goodreads or ebook-tree.

They have been born, again and again and again. He watches them grow, mature and still make the same mistakes, lifetime after lifetime. He wonders, time and time again, whether they retain anything of their old lives, any smidgen of memory that would lead them down a different path.

Gwen and Lancelot still fall for each other, every time, but their love is cursed, every time. Sometimes, one cheats on the other, other times they cheat on their respective spouses with each other. Whatever happens, their lives are destroyed and they pick up the pieces separately. 

Morgana always turns her back on those who love her. She betrays them, whether intentionally or unintentionally, and always, Morgause is there, holding the reins and setting her life on fire.

Mordred ruins lives as well. More often than not, he focuses on one person he feels has wronged him and sets about destroying everything they care about. Always, he is caught, and, always, he is punished equal to or greater than his crimes. And still, he does not learn.

Uther, though, Uther is a myriad of things. Sometimes, with his wife by his side, he is a kind father, a good man. But, take away his wife and he becomes the tyrant once more, hard and unbending.

Gwaine, Percival, Elyan and Leon are the only ones who escape this pitfall. Yes, Gwaine unerringly finds Merlin in every lifetime. Always the Warlock’s champion, whether said warlock wanted him or not, but his fate and destiny changes every time. Each life he lives – they all live, are different, some filled with more sorrow than others, but they each take different paths to the end.

Even Gaius, Balinor and Hunith make appearances now and then, living out their lives quietly and happily.

But Arthur never appears. It has been centuries now, and Merlin has watched the world change around him, has seen his once companions and his enemies live, die and live again, in a circle that never seems to end.

He is tired, he admits. Even Gwaine’s companionship and friendship in all the lives they have lived together is no longer enough.

His body, heart and soul ache for another who, it seems is destined to not live again. He is tired of waiting, weary of watching. He wants to sleep, eternal sleep, and join his King.

He wants Arthur back.

He is well aware he has no right to want Arthur back. He, who lied to Arthur, time and again, who kept an integral part of himself apart, until, when it all came out, he had Arthur’s trust and his ear, but his friendship no longer.

Arthur’s most trusted advisor and the court Warlock. His right hand man in every way but the most important. The title of friend and personal confidant had fallen to Lancelot, until Lancelot had fallen into love and temptation. Then Arthur had turned to Galahad, most pure of his knights, and Gwaine had sworn his allegiance to Merlin and it had all gone balls up from there.

The court divided, by Guinevere and Lancelot’s betrayal, by Gwaine’s seeming faithfulness to the court Warlock over his king, by Arthur and his descent into revenge. Camelot had been tearing itself apart and Merlin had not seen it until it was too late.

Arthur, dead by Mordred’s hand. Morgana, dead by Leon’s. And Merlin, trapped in a tree by Freya and unable to do anything as everything he held dear crumbled.

It had been Gwaine who found him, Gwaine who had captured Mordred and forced the boy, no, man by then, to release Merlin, and killed him when the deed was done.

It had been a sign, of the dark days to come, and another that Merlin missed. 

He could see, now, could see all the signs, could see what path he should have taken, when he should have talked to Arthur and when he should have left him alone. Hindsight, he often thinks, is a double-edged sword that cuts no matter how it is held.

It is Bedivere who dealt with Excalibur in the end, taking that thrice damned sword to Freya’s lake and throwing it for her to catch and bring it, once more, to sleep with her in the lake’s watery depths.

And the task of burying Arthur fell to Merlin. While the remaining knights struggled to bring some semblance of order to a kingdom thrown into chaos by prolonged civil war, Merlin had prepared his King for burial.

He’d cleaned Arthur’s wounds, and bathed and clothed him, like he’d done when he’d been a mere manservant. After, he gave the court and knights three days to mourn and pay their final respects to the man who’d led through a glorious and painfully short golden age.

Then he had, with Gwaine’s help, taken Arthur’s body to the lake where Avalon floated, hidden fog and mist. There, they’d laid Arthur’s body in the boat that always waited by the dock. Merlin had placed Arthur’s sword, his old one, the one he’d used and Merlin had taken care for years before Excalibur had entered his gasp, by his side and his crown on his brow.

He’d knelt down, while Gwaine pretended to be extremely interested in the vegetation surrounding the lake, and pressed the kiss he’d never been brave enough to give while Arthur lived to his King’s lips. The tears he’d tried to hold back splashed on Arthur’s cheeks, dampening them as he straightened.

Later, Gwaine would describe Merlin’s voice as tortured, as if strained from screaming for hours, then not talking for weeks, as he spoke; “farewell, my King.” Together, they pushed the boat off and watched it float towards Avalon.  
That was the last time Merlin saw his King.

Until the day Arthur pushes in the flower shop that Merlin runs with the ever faithful Gwaine beside him.

Merlin freezes while Arthur walks straight to Gwaine, bypassing the counter Merlin stands behind. He watches Gwaine – Greg in this life –turn, smile and freeze as well. 

And that’s when Merlin leaves the shop, ducking in the back and pushing out to the alley. It’s cold today, and he forgot his coat in the shop, as well as his scarf and gloves. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, such handy inventions, them, he starts walking, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

The village he’s settling into in his lifetime is small, on the Welsh border, and it’s off the beaten track. He’d chosen it for precisely that reason, and set up the flower shop because he couldn’t think of anything else.

He walks long enough that the sun is dipping below the horizon when he goes back to theshop. He isn’t surprised that Arthur is still there, standing legs splayed like he owns the place.

He is surprised to see everyone else is there as well, all those who had faithfully followed Arthur in the first mad charge to take Camelot from Morgana and Morgause. The first knights of the round table, as he thinks of them; Leon, Lancelot, Percival, Elyan and, of course, Gwaine. Guinevere is there as well and Gaius, though Gaius is just a boy and holding tight to Gwain’s hand.

It hits Merlin, like a tight fist to the belly. Arthur came for him last, slowly going about collecting his knights, and his lady, gathering his inner circle about him before he came to Merlin and Gwaine.

And he’d walked to Gwaine first.

“Well, Merlin,” Arthur says, and, for the first time, Merlin notices he’s holding Excalibur and distantly wanders if he’d wandered around the British isles with that in hand. “Will you join me?”

Merlin is suddenly reminded of the first meeting around the old round table, in the ruins of an abandoned castle, Arthur asking who will join him in his bid to rescue Uther and his knights pleding their allegiance and loyalty to him, one after another.

And Merlin had stayed seated, until Arthur had called on him. And, just as Arthur had told him then, he doesn’t really have a choice, and he’s known that from the moment the little bell above the door had jingled and he’d looked up to see the man he’d ached for for centuries.

“Merlin.” Now Arthur is giving him that same look he has hundreds of times before, a mix of exasperation and frustration and fondness and it makes Merlin’s belly twist and his heart ache ever more. “You know you don’t really have a choice. The people need us.”

Merlin’s never really had a choice, in his destiny , in his fate, in his place beside Arthur.

Arthur, who is holding out a hand and who looks exactly like how Merlin remembers him, from the long ago summer’s day, when he’d seen a noble man bullying a servant boy.

There is no saying ‘no’. There is no backing away. This is his destiny, his fate and it has been ever since he met a golden prince he called prat.

He takes Arthur’s hand, looks him in the eye and says, “I’m with you.” Always.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin finds out the reason for Arthur's return.

It’s aliens. Their enemies are not the undead, the magical or the power hunger. It’s not even infighting, or mad half-siblings bent on destroying everything they care about.

It’s aliens and when Merlin finds out, he turns to start at Arthur in disbelief.

Arthur, true to his nature, just quirks his mouth in a facsimile of a smile and demands Merlin turn Excalibur into a gun.

The first attack hits New York, which disgruntles Arthur. He’s not used to there being ‘superpowers’ and he’s definitely not happy that America is the leading superpower.

“We colonised them!” He says during one of his rants about the modern world.

“Us and a bunch of other people,” Merlin points out and earns yet another glare.

Still, when the aliens hit London, they are ill prepared. Britain’s leaders have been weakened by infighting and detrimental alliances with other nations. The attack throws the country into chaos and chaos leaves room for Arthur to take charge.

He forms a paramilitary group, with his knights and his lady as their primary warriors and Merlin as. Actually, Merlin isn’t sure what role he plays in Arthur’s little ragtag army. He is the warlock, yes, and Arthur uses his power as he has so often in the past, but he is not part of the inner circle, not as he was before.

Perhaps some part of it is that Merlin is holding himself back. He remembers the past, remembers all the lives past, in ways the others do not, cannot. It seems their first life has been returned with Arthur’s return, but their other lives, the ones Merlin has watched, knows about, remain a mystery. Because of that, it’s hard to talk with the others, to relate with them the way he once had.

Another part of it is Arthur. Arthur is holding back as well, reserving his judgement about everyone, but mostly about Merlin. Sometimes, during the weekly meeting where they figure out their next move, Merlin can feel eyes on him, heavy and burning. Yet, when he turns, Arthur is never looking at him. Talking to Lancelot, to Gwaine, flirting with Guinevere, laughing with Percival and Elyan, deep in discussion with Leon. Anything, but looking at Merlin.

Perversely, this drives Merlin on, urging him to do more and more reckless, stupid acts in a bid to get Arthur to just look at him. Gwaine tells him on more than one occasion to slow it down; “this isn’t Mordred, or Morgana, Merlin. You can’t overwhelm them with magic alone.”

But he can’t. He keeps pushing, pouring on magic he hasn’t used in centuries, shaping and directing it be instinct, even as Gaius chide him to use spells. “They help you focus Merlin! You know that!”

Merlin knows it but it’s hard to take Gaius seriously when he’s a ten year old with a gap where his two front teeth should be.

Which is why it doesn’t really come as surprise when he is captured.

The aliens don’t kill. That’s as much as anyone knows about them. They don’t kill and they’re not too affected by magic. 

What they do with their prisoners is unknown, but the people they take are never heard of again. Merlin’s about to find out why.

He wishes he could say it had all been part of a plan but, in truth, he’d been careless. He’d been trying to impress Arthur again – and he can admit that now, stuck in a cold cell that was all blue and purple and about as welcoming as Uther’s Camelot had been to magic users. He’d been scouting an alien strong hold when he’d felt a freezing sensation run down his spine and he’d suddenly been unable to move.

Next thing he knows, he’s in a cell by himself, all walls and no windows, not even a vent to let air in.

He can hear hisses and crackles, the distant murmur of voices, human voices, but every time he raises his voice to call out, there’s no reply. It is much like that time he’d been stuck in the tree, with nothing to do but to watch the horror unfold. 

He closes his eyes, but now he’s started that train of thought, he can’t stop the memories from rushing him.

It had been Freya. She had come to him in the night before the battle, had said they needed to talk. And he, fool that he was, he never seen it coming. He’d been in the tree before he could think to ask just what it was they had needed to talk about. 

They hadn’t talked in years, not since Freya had given him Excalibur and reminded him of its dark fate. Trapped in the tree, Merlin had screamed himself hoarse, more so when a window had opened before him and he could see what was happening. 

Arthur, yelling for him, sending knights, pages and squires scuttling to find his missing court Warlock. Gwaine, near frantic with worry as Morgana’s army marched closer to their campsite. Finally, Arthur giving up, resigning Merlin to the growing list of yet another who failed him, and rallying his knights to battle.

Freya had come to him later, after Gwaine had forced Merlin to set him free, to explain. It had taken her three hours to convince him to even listen to her, and even then, her explanation had left him feeling hollow.

Camelot was falling, she’d said. Had been, even with Arthur in power. Merlin’s King had been losing his hold on Albion, on the peace they’d forged with fire, war and treaties after treaties. Excalibur had been ringing in her head; a sign of the end.

So she’d come out of her lake, and imprisoned the one person who could have stopped what she’d seen. She’d been cutting short the torture, she’d explained, her words washing over him by then, a thousand little nicks in his heart. If Merlin had been there, Arthur would have won the battle, yes, but it would not have stopped Camelot’s downfall.

It would have been more painful. It had been easier to let Arthur die.

Her words had followed him, ringing ever in his ears as he struggled to hold on to all he had left. As he watched it slip out of his grasp. As he watched it fall and the pieces scatter like seeds in the wind.

Guinevere, in a covenant for the rest of her life. Lancelot’s place in a monastery, with some of the other knights who had joined him in his rush from Camelot. Leon, Percival and Elyan, lost to obscurity. Camelot in ruins, its glory lost in history until all that was left was legend. And Gwaine, following Merlin until Merlin wiped his memory and sent him to live a quiet life in a village not far from what had once been Ealdor.

Merlin had wandered after Camelot’s fall, travelling all around Albion waiting for death until he realised it would not come. He was immortal, with nothing and no one to live for.

Even Gwaine, loyal soul though he was, had not been able to find Merlin during those lost years. How long he would have wandered for, he didn’t know, if not for Gaius.

Gaius, who Merlin had met as a young man about to marry his Alice of that lifetime, had taken one look at the mess the warlock had been and adopted him as a younger brother, seemingly deaf to Merlin’s protest. And everyone else’s.

Living with Gaius, and his wife – once he’d married – taught Merlin how to be human again. How to live again. And when Gaius’s wife had given birth to Gwaine, and Merlin had helped raise the boy, he’d learnt how to be happy again.  
And he had been happy, he reflects, in that little village with Gaius and Alice. Until he’d realised that people were watching him, were looking at him suspiciously as the years passed and he didn’t age.

So he’d left and found another little village to be happy in, again and again and again, until Arthur had walked into his little flower shop.

The memory makes him snap his eyes open. He’s done with mourning, done with thinking over and over what had gone wrong, what he’d done wrong. He’s been done with that for centuries and damn Arthur for bringing it all back.  
It is time to think. It’s time to go. 

He stretches his arms out, facing the wall he’s kind of sure the aliens had pushed him trough. He narrows his eyes, calling his magic, feeling its sluggish answer. It’s been lying dormant for centuries, but it’s getting easier to use again.

He blasts through the wall with just a thought, grimacing when Gaius’ voice sounds in his mind. It’s so weird to hear him at ten years old.

He’s opened a hole into another cell. There’s a young man in there, no more than twenty-five, and Merlin’s stomach twists when he recognises him. It’s Bedivere, one of Arthur’s most faithful knights, and he’s staring at Merlin with dark eyes that are blank.

He’s thin, too thin, and there are scars on his wrists, scars that perfectly round holes. Without thinking, Merlin lets his magic wash over the man. His heart thumps down to his belly at what he finds there. And what he doesn’t find.

“What did they do to you Bedivere?”

There is no reply. Bedivere doesn’t even seem to hear him, or know him. Merlin wonders if he can, if his memories have returned. The inner circle had remembered once Arthur had appeared in front of them, and the other knights had slowly returned to Arthur’s side as their memories had returned to them.

Bedivere had just been one of several who hadn’t returned.

They hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t given him more than a passing thought. It twists Merlin up now, the knowledge that they’d left one of the knights, one who’d stood by Arthur’s side through everything, here, to whatever the aliens are doing to the humans they’d captured.

The second blast, one he doesn’t create, knocks him off his feet. His magic rises instinctive. He’s already tensed, on the edge and ready to fight, and he’s pinned Arthur to the wall of the hall outside before he registers his King.

“Whoops?” He offers at Arthur’s glare, and releases him.

“Whoops.” Arthur’s voice is flat and he’s got Excalibur in a thigh holster.

“It was an honest mistake!”

Arthur’s answer is to ignore Merlin’s - perfectly good! – reason and grab his arm. “Come on. We need to get out of here before the other ships come to the rescue.”

“We can’t!” Merlin digs his heels in and is still jerked forward. Even through all the centuries he’s lived through, Merlin is still incapable of putting on any muscle.

But Arthur gets the message and turns to glare at him. “What part of ‘we need to get out of here before help arrives’ did you not understand?”

“Technically you said ‘before the other ships come to the rescue’. And, and,” Merlin adds hastily when Arthur ups his glare, “I have a perfectly good reason!” He points to Bedivere who, he notes with increasing worry, is still staring at them blankly.

“And, pray tell, what would that rea...” Arthur trails off when he sees Bedivere. He breathes out the man’s name.

That makes Bedivere snap to attention, his eyes finally focusing. He stares at Arthur for long, long minutes in which Merlin can clearly feel his heart in his ears, and then his eyes roll back and he slumps to the floor.

Arthur curses, leaping through the hole to crouch over him. Merlin chooses to carefully clamber through. Centuries has done nothing to diminish his clumsiness.

“He’s weak,” Arthur says and his words are an accusation.

Merlin fights back the wince, says in an as even voice as he can manage, “He’s drained. I don’t know what they were doing to him.” Merlin looks at Arthur, waits until Arthur meets his eyes. “We’re taking everyone in this ship back home. We’re not – Arthur, we can’t just leave them here. Who knows what these monsters are doing to them?”

“I was not planning on leaving them here, Merlin.” Arthur’s tone is pure aristocrat and for a moment, Merlin’s back in Camelot, listening to Arthur dictate another order while the sun shone through the windows and lit the gold of his crown until it seemed a halo surrounded his head. 

“The others are being taken care of. I just came to find you.”

Merlin – regardless of Arthur’s repeated insults – is not an idiot. He can read between the lines, even if he’s not sure what he’s reading is right.

In all the years since Arthur discovered Merlin’s secret, he’s never come for Merlin. Gwaine has always been the one to get him, sent to retrieve him every time he’d been kidnapped, lost, injured – or the one time he’d left, sick of Camelot, sick of the pressure, sick of the distance with which everyone treated him.

It had been Gwaine who’d caught him, comforted him, brought him home and convinced him everything would work out. Convinced him to stay. Through it all, Arthur had watched and kept his own council.

Merlin isn’t sure what it means that he chose to seek out his Warlock now.

“Uh, right. Of course,” Merlin says when he realises Arthur’s glaring at him.

Arthur shakes his head and easily – too easily – picks up Bedivere’s still form. His frown indicates he’s thinking the same thing as Merlin, and their eyes meet as Arthur stands, slinging the knight over his shoulder.

Arthur looks away first. “Let’s go. The others are waiting for us.”

That’s when Merlin remembers they’re in a space ship – as in a ship orbiting millions of kilometres above the world. And that Arthur, for all their resources, does not have a space ship at his disposal.

“Speaking of, how did you all get up here? And how are we going to get back?”

Arthur smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this chapter has been a long time coming hasn't it? Sorry for that. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed it. Next instalment coming...god knows when. I'm so sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

Magic is, of course, the answer, and Merlin knows who Arthur turned to as soon as he feels the magic move over his body, pulling him back to earth, to the warehouse they call their base.

“Morgana.”

He opens his eyes as the magic leaves him, aided by his own magic pushing it away. Morgana stands at the very edge of the room, her arm firmly clamped around a little boy. As for the boy, he’s clutching Morgana’s leg, head pressed to her thigh, just above her knee, and watching them with big eyes that are all too familiar.

“Mordred. That’s Mordred.” Merlin’s gaze bounces, from Morgana to Mordred, cataloguing the skin, the hair, the eyes. “He’s your son.”

“Merlin.” Behind him, Arthur grunts, and then he feels a warm hand on the back of his neck, squeezing gently. “Let’s have this conversation later, shall we? Bedivere needs help, urgently.”

With that, he brushes past Merlin, with Bedivere still on his shoulder.When Merlin doesn’t move, still rooted to the spot with a combination of shock and delayed reaction to everything that’s happened in the past day, Arthur stops at the door, turning to look at him. “Well, come on Merlin. We don’t have all day.”

The other knights are already leading the other prisoners out of the room, their voices a quiet, steady thrum. Gwaine claps Merlin on the shoulder, his hand heavy and familiar. “Can’t keep the princess waiting.”

Arthur scowls at the old nickname but doesn’t say anything as Gwaine takes a young girl out, cradling her in his arms. Her arms and legs are like sticks and makes Merlin’s stomach tighten.

“Merlin. Now.”

Instinct, honed by years of heavy punches, sudden headlocks and things beings thrown at him, has Merlin moving, even as he keeps his eyes on Morgana. “We’re here to help, Emrys,” she says, her voice quiet and serious. Mordred just keeps staring.

Merlin has nothing to say to that, only allows Arthur to grab his arm and drag him from the room. Bedivere is still limp on Arthur’s shoulder as they cross the warehouse.

The warehouse has been neatly divided, both by Merlin’s magic and physical labour. Upstairs is the living quarters, with a dining hall and kitchens. On the ground floor, there is a war room, a large preparation area and the hold – which Gwaine has dubbed the ‘new Camelot dungeons’. 

There is also the medical ward, where they’re headed to.It’s run by Gaius – at Arthur’s insistence – and the men and women under him seem both bemused and amused that a ten year old is telling them what to do.  
It helps, Merlin reckons, that Gaius so obviously knows what he’s talking about.

Bedivere does not wake up, not even as the nurses and doctors scramble about them, as Gaius stands on a chair and yells out orders. Arthur gently puts Bedivere into the bed Gaius indicates, and stands back as nurses surround him.

“Should have looked for him.”

At first, Arthur’s voice is so soft, Merlin doesn’t register the words. Then Arthur repeats them, stronger, and Merlin turns to look at him.“Maybe. But you didn’t know where he was. You didn’t know where any of the other knights were.”

“I should have looked anyway!”

At Arthur’s shout, the whole ward freezes. Merlin winces, remembering how much Arthur hates to lose his temper in public. To underscore the point, Arthur immediately takes note of everyone’s eyes on him and gives them all a beatific smile. “My apologies. Excuse us.”

With that, he takes Merlin’s arm and practically marches him away, through the warehouse and outside.

The sky is dark. Night has long since fallen and Merlin shivers in the cold. Arthur, of course, doesn’t seem to notice any discomfort, merely paces away from Merlin before doubling back. Merlin, well used to this, folds his arms for some warmth against the wind and cautiously pokes the lion.

“It would have been a wild goose chase, you know. Looking for Bedivere, or the other knights.”

Arthur stops a couple of feet away, but his eyes burn the distance. “That is no excuse.”

“It’s the truth.” Merlin hunches his shoulders, tries to get away from the cold a bit. “Not an excuse. You didn’t know where the other knights were. Whatever they did to, at Avalon, whatever knowledge they gave that helped you find m – us. Us. It didn’t extend to the other knights.” Arthur opens his mouth, probably to argue, and Merlin rolls on with practiced ease. “You’d’ve spent months searching for them – months we needed setting up, getting ready – reacting to bloody aliens – who, by the way, you did not warn me about. And you knew about them – don’t tell me that you didn’t.”

“Merlin.”

“A little warning would have been nice. Very nice, actually. I might’ve been able to look up some spells, see if there’s anything to use against beings from another world. Or galaxy. Whatever.”

“Merlin.”

“Hey, I’d’ve maybe had time to create some new spells – I’ve gotten pretty good at that, by the way. No more holes in the castle wall – not that we’ve got a castle now. No holes in the warehouse wall?”

“Merlin!”

That familiar tone stops Merlin mid-rant. Arthur is scowling at him, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping a staccato beat on his bicep. It’s usually at this point that Arthur unfolds his arms and slugs Merlin for whatever line Merlin’s overstepped.

He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at Merlin for the longest time, before turning on his heel and striding back into the warehouse. 

Merlin slumps against the wall, closes his eyes. The cold presses in, makes his breath puff out in little white clouds. He could do a little spell, or even just let his magic loose, make it just a tad warmer but he doesn’t.

The door they came through swings open and he hears footsteps stomp out. They stop beside him.

“Not exactly the best night to admire the stars, mate.”

“If I were admiring them,” Merlin points out with a little huff of laughter, “I’d be looking up.”

“You never were the smartest.” Gwaine grins when Merlin glares at him. “At least, not according to Arthur.” 

“Arthur’s not the most reliable source for opinion,” Merlin says, only half in jest. 

Gwaine falls silent beside him and Merlin looks away, over to the chain-link fence, the one that provides no real protection but reassures the people working under Arthur. 

An illusion, he thinks, just like Camelot had been. Arthur and Gwen, the peace treaties, the beautiful golden age that had been so painfully short his throat backs up, thinking of it. 

“Bedivere’s going to make it,” Gwaine says finally. “Gaius says there won’t be any lasting damage from whatever they did to him.” 

“They drained him,” Merlin replies. “I don’t know how but they – they pulled his life force out of him.” 

Gwaine grimaces, runs a hand over his face. “Christ, that’s. That’s just. Are you sure?”

“I felt it,” Merlin says and fists his hands at the memory. “And – I know the feeling.”

Beside him, Gwaine says nothing. There’s not much to say - it’s been centuries but Merlin can still hear the man’s scream as the warlock had slowly drained his life into the earth. One scream, a never ending scream that echoes in the back of Merlin’s mind.

The man had deserved it – betraying the crown, slaughtering dozens of innocents, raping dozens more, and more crimes that had made Merlin vomit when he’d first heard them. He hadn’t understood it then, but he understood it now; sadist, psychopath, serial killer. 

So, yes, the man had deserved it, but Merlin had not. It had been the one and only time Merlin had begged Arthur to never order him to do it again. Not fought, not reasoned, but begged, his hands shaking and voice cracking as he’d looked at the sky and not at the King he hadn’t been sure he recognised anymore.

He’s brought back to the present by Gwaine stamping his feet and clearing his throat. “Well, it’s almost time for dinner.” Gwaine grins and nudges Merlin, elbow unerringly finding that one spot just under Merlin’s ribs where he’s ticklish. Gwaine laughs as Merlin scuttles away, more out of habit than anything else. 

“Come on. Bet you’re hungry, eh? Don’t reckon those arseholes fed you anything up there.”

“In a little while,” Merlin replies. When Gwaine hesitates, Merlin smiles in what he hopes Is a reassuring manner. “I’ll be there. You know me, can’t keep away from food. Just – I’ll be there.”

The answer doesn’t satisfy Gwaine, from the twist of his mouth, but he nods and disappears, back into the warehouse’s depths.

Merlin waits.

He doesn’t have to for long. The door swings open and out comes Morgana, Mordred’s hand firmly clasped in her own. The boy’s sucking his thumb, Merlin notes, and looks adorably sleepy.

But Merlin can still see the warlock who had taken Arthur’s life, who had watched Arthur bleed into the earth with hard eyes. 

Mordred looks up at Merlin solemnly, and blinks once, twice, before putting his head on Morgana’s thigh. He frees his hand from Morgana’s hold to curl it around her thigh. 

“Emrys.”

“Morgana,” Merlin returns, keeping his voice cool and distant.

Morgana looks pained and Merlin is suddenly reminded of the beautiful King’s ward, before madness and Morgause had gotten their claws in her. Beautiful, independent and vulnerable. Everyone had lost a piece of their hearts when she’d turned against Uther, Arthur and Camelot.

“Arthur found us,” Morgana says finally, “just a couple of hours after you didn’t come back when you were supposed to. I guess – he knew where we were, all this time. And he came for us.”

Merlin shouldn’t be having this conversation with Morgana. He remembers her lies and deception, how many times she almost succeeded in killing Arthur, by simple virtue of being one of the few he trusted. 

But he knows Arthur will not tell him what happened. And, knowing Arthur, he’d probably snuck out to find Morgana on his own. Like it or not, Morgana is the only one he can ask. But it does not mean he trusts her.

Even as he sends out a little tendril of magic to ensure she speaks the truth, he sees Mordred stiffen and suddenly his magic breaks through a wall. It’s a flimsy barrier, one hastily and inexpertly constructed, and it came from Mordred.

Morgana doesn’t react as the spell hits her but Merlin pays her no mind, eyes focused on Mordred, who’s still sucking on his thumb but looking at Merlin with childish suspicion. 

“Don’t like you,” he pronounces.

At least, that’s what Merlin thinks he said, as he didn’t take his thumb out of his mouth to make his announcement.

Morgana frowns at Mordred, curving a hand over his head. “Mordred, no. Remember what mama told you? Emrys is a friend.”

“Magic on mama. No.”

“Only because he wanted to make sure mama is a friend. I’m not hurt, Mordred. See?”

Morgana gently pulls away from Mordred’s hold, and spreads out her arms. Mordred looks at her, eyes too solemn for a boy who couldn’t be more than six years old. “Kay,” he says finally but turns to shoot a glare at Merlin as he reclaims his hold on Morgana’s thigh. “Still don’t like you.”

“Well, I’m not sure how I feel about you either,” Merlin shoots back, and then feels ridiculous for rising up to the bait of a little boy.

Morgana just sighs when Mordred all but sticks his tongue out at Merlin. “That’s enough Mordred,” she says and once more places her hand on his head. She looks at Merlin almost apologetically. “He’s not had a nap and it’s been a bit of a long day, so he’s more than a little cranky.”

“Not cranky,” Mordred immediately says with a scowl, belaying that statement. “Don’t need nap.”

“Of course you don’t, my little man,” Morgana says with more than a little fondness. She rubs her hand over his hair and turns her attention back to Merlin. 

“We found you by scrying,” she says. “Arthur had one of your neckerchiefs from when you were his manservant – though only heaven knows how he managed to hold on to it for this long. Arthur was – not pleased to find out you’d been captured.”

“Of course not,” Merlin murmurs, remembering the hard line of Arthur’s mouth every time Merlin got captured, back in the heady, golden days of Camelot. Always displeased to have his warlock captured, though never for the reason Merlin wishes – wished.

Morgana shrugs and Merlin watches as Mordred’s eyes droop, his mouth going slightly slack.

“He’s the one who dragged us here – literally kicking and screaming,” she adds with a wry glance at the half asleep boy leaning almost all of his weight on her leg.

“Why did you send them up?” Merlin asks, old fears and anger making his question harsher than he means it to be.

Mordred jerks slightly at the question, blinks angrily at Merlin – and how the hell he manages to blink angrily is beyond Merlin’s comprehension. 

“It was Arthur,” Morgana says and her voice is heavy with – something. Merlin’s not sure what. “He insisted. He and the knights would go up there, get a measure of what was going on.” She grimaces and her hand tightens fractionally on Mordred’s hair, enough to make him frown. “I didn’t know it would become a damn rescue mission.” She lightens her hold and smoothes her hand over Mordred’s hair and Merlin understands.

“You pulled his magic,” Merlin says, and his voice is flat.

He remembers Morgana attempting to do that to him, the almost crippling pain that had overcome him. He remembers gasping on the ground, unable to do much more than try to breath. He remembers Gwaine cradling his head, comforting him as the pain ended as abruptly as it’d begun, another grievance to add to the growing list Merlin keeps in the back of his mind. 

“No,” Morgana says, and her voice is heated, pale eyes flashing. Her hand travels down, to Mordred’s shoulder, and curls him into her protectively. “I’m not you Emrys. I’ve no well of limitless power within me. My magic was at its last and Mordred added to the spell to bring you all home.”

“No pulling,” Mordred adds, though it’s slurred and his thumb’s still in his mouth, so it sounds more like ‘nurink’.

It makes Merlin smile, involuntarily, and Morgana huff out a laugh. She untangles her leg from Mordred, squatting to put her hands on his shoulders and look into his eyes. “You, my dear boy, need your bed.”

Mordred summons enough energy to pull out his thumb. “No.”

“Yes,” Morgana returns, gathers her to him and, in a move that always stuns Merlin, no matter how many times he’s seen other mothers do it, surges to her feet without the benefit of her hands.

Mordred slumps against her, thumb once more in his mouth. 

Even as they all turn towards the door, it slams open and there’s Leon, looking slightly startled. “Sorry,” he apologises, stepping aside and gesturing inward. “The wind’s a bit stronger than I reckoned.”

Morgana just shoots him a distrustful look and skitters inside, taking care not to touch the knight as she passes by. Leon watches her go with a minute frown, then turns back to Merlin. “Arthur’s looking for you,” he says. “But Gwaine says you haven’t had dinner, so you should probably get on that before he finds you.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says, walking in and waiting for Leon to close the door and fall into step beside him. “Where is Arthur?”

“With Gwen,” Leon says, and the twist of his mouth says everything about how he feels for the subject. “In his chambers.”

“Ah,” Merlin says and turns his face away and says nothing further as they ascend the stairs and head towards the dining hall.

Gwaine’s got two trays and since he’s not Percival, Merlin makes his way over and takes the second tray. As he settles in the seat left open for him, Gwaine looks at him. “All right then?”

“Sorted,” Merlin replies, picks up his fork and tries not to think of wheels ever turning and mistakes never learnt.


	4. Chapter 4

The fire casts strange shadows in the twilight. Merlin can see them out of the corner of his eye, twisting and dancing like the fire is, throwing some in dark then light then dark again.

It makes him dizzy, but it’s better than looking into the fire. Better than looking at the stark reminder of those he’s failed.

The funeral pyre is much larger than they’d hoped it would be. 

The girl is in there, Merlin can’t help but remember, the little girl Gwaine had been carrying, with arms and legs like sticks. They’d never gotten her name as she’d never woken up. A lot of the people they’d rescued had never woken up.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, squeezes and he turns his head to look at Gwaine. The knight gives him a crooked smile but his eyes are dark from more than the shadows the fire is throwing. “Come on,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble over the low roar of the flame. “Arthur’s calling for us.”

Merlin nods but doesn’t move. Gwaine squeezes his shoulder again. “Merlin. It’s getting dark.” Now the hand on his shoulder changes to one on his back, gently guiding him inside the warehouse.

He blinks as the light hits his eyes, rubbing them. “How long,” he stops, clears his throat because it feels like there’s sand in it. “How long was I out there?”

“Too long,” Gwaine says, not moving his hand away. “Everyone’s in the war room.”

“You watch too many movies,” Merlin mutters, even though everyone’s taken to calling the small room Arthur uses to plan his moves that as well.

It’s at the back of the warehouse, tucked into a corner and well away from most of the activity. It’s windowless, secured by technology and magic. Merlin isn’t surprised to see Morgana there, with Mordred hugging her leg again.

The others are there as well. Leon, Lancelot, Percival and Elyan, Arthur’s first and most loyal knights, and Gwen, his lady. 

And Arthur of course, standing at the head of the table, hands braced on it, eyes on the door as Merlin and Gwaine come through. Gwaine presses his fingers lightly into the small of Merlin’s back, then drops his hand away, moving to stand with the others knights. Merlin walks over to the opposite side of the table, where Morgana and Mordred are. No one comments when he positions himself between them and Arthur.

Arthur doesn’t even look at him.

“They have Morgause,” he says without preamble, and doesn’t give time for anyone to react. “Leon will explain.”

Leon steps forward and clears his throat. Merlin notes how he very carefully doesn’t look at Morgana as he speaks. “From what the survivors have said, they’re being used for their energy. The aliens have some sort of machine that sucks their life force. We’re not sure what they’re using the energy for, only that they seem to need at lot of it. According to reports, the machines are almost constantly in use.” He pauses here, sneaks a completely unsubtle look at Morgana. 

She’s very determinedly staring at the table. 

“There are also reports of the woman who they say is almost always in the machines. Ordinarily, they last a maximum of six, seven hours in the machine, before fainting. They need to be conscious for the machines to work, apparently.” 

Again Leon pauses, but only to press the button under the table. Its surface lights up and Mordred perks up. He reaches out but Morgana snaps his hand into hers before his fingers can do more than graze the surface. Leon does not react, only takes the files he needs and expands them.

Everyone leans in and Merlin sees a rough sketch - he thinks he recognises Bors’ hand - of what he presumes to be the machine. It looks like nothing more than a cushioned tube. He can see shackles, where he presumes they stick the prisoner’s feet and feels sick, imagining Bedivere in there, trying to struggle but too weak to do more than flail.

“The woman stays in the machines for almost three cycles of the normal time,” Leon continues, eyes on the table. “She’s blonde, slim and her eyes go gold when she’s in the machine.” Now he looks up, and it’s at Arthur. “If she’s not Morgause, then she’s certainly a sorcerer. And there’s not many of them around.”

“We have to get her!” Morgana’s hand slaps on the table, loud enough that everyone jumps. “She might be - we have to get her out of there.” She turns fierce eyes on Arthur. “Why the hell didn’t you get her out? If they saw her, then she was on the same bloody ship as you were! You used my magic to get your warlock out, but you couldn’t even be bothered to look for my sister?”

“We didn’t know she was there,” Arthur replies, calm in the face of fury. “We only grabbed the ones in the cells. The ship was huge, Morgana. There’s no way we had any way of knowing she was there.”

Morgana’s hands fist, the one still holding onto Mordred tightening hard enough to make the boy wince, try to wiggle it free. Morgana doesn’t seem to notice. “You hated her. You always have!”

Merlin can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, his head is pounding and all he can think of are never ending circles. Wheels that turn and mistakes unlearnt. Gwen and Lancelot are inching towards each other, Morgana is facing off against Arthur. And Arthur – Arthur is closed off and stiff, a force unto himself and not looking for help when he most needs it.

A wheel ever turning and it seems that even with Arthur’s return, it hasn’t stopped.

Last time it was just Camelot. This time, it’s the world and Merlin can’t stand to see another crash and burn, and be the lone survivor to remember it all. 

He’s moving before he’s registered the thought, fist slamming onto the table hard enough its screen goes fuzzy for a few seconds. It’s enough for silence to fall, for everyone’s eyes to turn to him.

It’s enough for his breathing to settle and his head to quiet.

His voice is just as quiet. “Enough. Just enough. It’s bad enough there are aliens invading our world and our King decided it best we don’t know until they hit. Now you’ll spend time on arguing over a woman who only ever destroys lives? That’s what important to you?”

“She’s my sister.”

“And Arthur’s your brother! Or is that not as important to you as a woman as always, always by the way, destroys your life for her own personal agenda? Oh, she hides it under this, I’m your sister, friend, lover, whatever, but underneath that it’s, this person has wronged me, I hate so-and-so and if you love me, you’ll help me. Never mind that you’re the one who ends up suffering the most. And then you-”

“Merlin.” Gwaine voice is quiet and the arm he puts over Merlin’s shoulder heavy. “Merlin, enough.” 

Merlin can’t breathe again. Can only turn to bury his face in Gwaine’s shoulder, hide from the stares, from Arthur’s eyes. He lets Gwaine tug and pull, lead him out of the room and up the stairs. By the time he’s cognisant of his surroundings again, they’re in the room Arthur designated as Merlin’s. 

Merlin tries not to remember that it’s as far from Arthur’s as possible.

“Here.” Gwaine thrusts a mug at Merlin.

Merlin blinks at it. “Water?”

Gwaine makes a face and waves the mug in his other hand. “Yeah, the good stuff’s for me, mate. I think you’re better off with some water in you.”

Merlin makes his own face but takes the mug, gulping some down when Gwaine raises a brow. Gwaine nods and takes a seat beside Merlin on the bed. “So,” he starts, then shakes his head. “No, I’m not doing this without something in me.” He drains his mug in one go. “Jesus. Haven’t done that in a while.” He shakes his head again. “Okay. Right. Let’s hear it then.”

“Hear what?” Merlin asks, staring at his mug and wishing for something a hell lot stronger than water. “Why can’t I—”

“You need to be sober for this,” Gwaine shoots back. “Me, on the other hand? I think I need a lot more for this shite but I’ve a feeling you’ll bolt soon as I leave so I’m making do.”

“I would not,” Merlin mutters, even if it’s true. He swirls the water still in his mug and, giving up, sets it on the tiny table that passes for a nightstand. “I don’t—what is there to talk about, really?”

“How ‘bout the way you seemed to be referring to more than what Morgause did back in Camelot? I’m not deaf Merlin, and neither are any of the people back there. Sister, friend, lover?” Gwaine keeps his eyes on Merlin. “Time to ‘fess up, Merlin,” he adds in a quieter voice. “Before Arthur barges in, demanding what’s what.”

“He won’t do that,” Merlin mutters and pulls his legs up, looping his arms around them.

Gwaine, for once, keeps his mouth shut and leans into Merlin, a warm, steady weight against Merlin’s side. And Merlin closes his eyes, opens his mouth and lets it all loose. 

He tells Gwaine of wiping his memory, of sending him to live in the little village. He talks of the years he lost wandering around a land descending into chaos, of waiting and waiting and nothing happening.

He talks of finding Gaius as a young man, of seeing Lance, Gwen, Elyan, everyone as children, and then as full grown and then children again. He tells Gwaine about the never ending cycle, about the patterns he’s been witness to for a millennium. 

Like when Gwen and Lance had nearly killed their spouses with their infidelity. When Mordred had been branded a psychopath and hanged for his crimes. When Morgana had destroyed a whole family, because of an imagined slight on Morgause’s part. 

When he finally stops talking, he’s kind of dizzy and desperate for something other than water. Gwaine has stayed silent the whole time, not once moving or flinching.

Now, in the ringing quiet that comes after prolonged sound, he stretches his legs out and says, in a considering voice, “knew I should have raided Percy’s stash.”

That startles a laugh out of Merlin. He turns into Gwaine’s embrace, once more burying his face in Gwaine’s shoulder as the laughter racks his body, sets it shaking. 

It takes him a while - too long actually - to realise the laughter has given away to sobs and that he’s soaking Gwaine’s shit with tears. He’s mortified, he wants to stop, but Gwaine’s got his arms around him and he can’t, he can’t. He just can’t.

So he melts into the hug, and lets out centuries of pain and heartache. 

By the time he’s done, his eyes feel raw, his nose is stuffed up and his throat just plain hurts. His body feels heavy, and he can’t lift his head, can only roll it so he can sort of see Gwaine out the corner of his eye. Gwaine says nothing, again, and really, this must be some sort of record, and runs a warm, large hand down Merlin’s back.

Merlin would be embarrassed but he’s only glad no one else was around to witness his breakdown. 

“Better?” Gwaine finally asks, voice a soft rumble against Merlin’s ear. 

Merlin manages a nod. 

“Sleep?” Gwaine suggests.

Merlin nods again and lets Gwaine manhandle him into lying on his bed. Gwaine undresses him with quick, easy movements, Merlin too tired to do more than lift his arms and hips when Gwaine tells him to. Gwaine manages to tug the blanket over him.

Merlin lets his eyes droop close, lets his body relax fully as Gwaine gives his hair a gentle ruffle. “Alright?” He asks, his voice soft, almost soundless in a sudden quiet.

Merlin manages a nod and slips easily into dreams.

He dreams of Camelot, of the golden King and his sunlit Queen. He dreams of brave Knights and bold quests. Gwen, Gwaine, Lancelot, Leon, Elyan, and Percival, all run through his mind, faces, lives, hopes changing and mutating. And the only constant is always, always, Arthur.

There’s blood and war, the sounds of swords clashing, of canons firing and shots going off. There’s cavalry and Camelot’s bold red banner fluttering high as they charge into battle. The air is filled with mustard gas, the smell of gunpowder and the sounds of those unlucky soldiers without their gas masks on. 

Magic crackles in the air and technology hums. Horses and carriages compete for space on muddy cobbled roads while sleek cars speed past, faster than anything he’s ever seen. There’s Morgana and now Morgause and Mordred, old and young and old again, in a dizzying rush.

There is death and laughter, pain and love, and Arthur, always Arthur, and they swirl round and round in Merlin’s mind and heart until he wakes with a muted shout. 

He lies still, heart pounding in his ears as he tries to sort out one life from the next. He hasn’t - he hasn’t had that sort of dream in such a long while. He’d thought himself to be well rid of them. 

The silence is oppressive. 

Merlin sits up, pushing back the blanket, needing sound, light, people - anything to remind him he isn’t alone now, lost in a century that he barely recognises.

He stops when he hears Gwaine’s voice, shouting loud enough it probably penetrates the warehouse walls to the compound outside. Merlin can hardly make out what he’s saying, but the tone is familiar. It’s Gwaine’s what-in-ever-loving-hell-was-going-through-your-bloody-mind tone and Merlin’s heard it plenty of times through the centuries, but never in that loud a volume. 

He pushes the door open, to get a peek at who’s getting an unexpected wave of Gwaine rage when he hears Arthur’s voice, cool where Gwaine’s is hot, calm where Gwaine is angry. Again, he can’t hear the words but, this time, he doesn’t want to.

He’d cracked open the door in time to hear “-millennium! He’s been alive for a millennium!”

Merlin’s not sure if it’s been a millennium. He’d stopped counting the years, about the same time he’d met Gwaine for the fifteenth time. 

He doesn’t want to go out there. He doesn’t want to deal with the stares, the fear, the wariness. He’s had enough of that to last him the rest of what seems to be his long, long life. 

So he pulls back, pushes the door closed and collapses backwards onto the bed. 

He’s tired. He’s emotionally drained, mentally exhausted and right now, wants nothing more than to sleep without dreams. But he can sense footsteps approaching, the small magical tripwires he’d set up on the way to his room tingling down his senses. The last one goes off and he sit up, waits.

He can’t say he’s surprised when Arthur pushes the door open.

Arthur says nothing as he steps inside, shoves the door closed behind him. He leans against the door, crosses his arms. “You didn’t tell them you’ve never died.”

“You knew,” is all Merlin can think to say, then rubs a hand over his face because, of course Arthur knew. He was in Avalon, the bloody Blessed Isle. He left it, fully healed and young again, with the knowledge of where to find his most trust Knights, his lady love and his warlock.

Of course Arthur knew.

“Not my fault,” Merlin says because when Arthur looks at him like that, his default response is defensiveness. “Kinda. I mean, it never came up. Not that it would come up but you know.” He gestures, knowing it’s pointless and doesn’t make sense but he can’t help himself. “Not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Arthur points out and even though it’s true, Merlin scowls. 

“You implied it,” he shoots back and rubs his face again. He wants Arthur to go, he wants Arthur to stay and he wants this push and pull of his emotions to stop.

Arthur sighs, that stupid heavy sigh that makes Merlin want to punch him because it means he’s annoying Arthur, that Arthur feels he has to talk to Merlin, has to calm him down. Has to, because Merlin’s nothing more than a fucking chore.

“Merlin—” he starts and Merlin–Merlin can’t.

“I’m alright,” he interrupts and leaves Arthur gaping like a fish because Merlin has never interrupted him, not when it was important. “I’m okay,” he rushes on, ignoring the way his gut is twisting, because he needs Arthur out. He can’t deal with his king when he feels this wrecked, this tired. “I’ll talk to everyone, alright? Sort things out, make my peace and all that. I know - I shouldn’t have kept it to myself and I’m sorry but I’ll handle this. It.”

Arthur’s still standing there, though he’s closed his mouth and Merlin can’t figure out his expression, can’t figure out the emotions roiling in those light blue eyes. 

“I’ll sort it out,” Merlin repeats and, with nothing left to say, simply looks at Arthur and waits.

The silence stretches out, long enough that Merlin lifts his hand, starts to fidget with the scarf around his neck. That seems to snap Arthur out of whatever daze he’s in - he nods sharply and pulls the door open.

He shuts it behind him and Merlin’s left in the room alone. He buries his head in his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

Silence falls when Merlin walks into the dining hall the next morning.

It’s sudden and swift enough that Merlin freezes, one foot still raised, half way through the doorway. There is no one looking at him, he sees after a quick glance around the wide space, but he still has everyone’s attention. He resists the urge to close his eyes and makes himself walk all the way into the room.

Damn Gwaine and his big mouth.

And, speaking of the man, there he is, seated at one of the long tables by the corner, with the other knights of the first round table. Leon spots him and waves him over, shoving at Percival to make room. He slips into the gap they make for him, smiles at Lancelot when he nudges over a bowl of cereal. 

“You all right then,” Lancelot asks quietly, under the cover of the conversation that starts up again, just a little too loud and boisterous to be natural.

Merlin shrugs and spoons up some cereal to give himself time to think of an answer. “Well enough,” he finally says around his empty spoon. “Gwaine’s got a big mouth.”

Gwaine’s head swivels around at the sound of his name and his mouth is already opening, expression indignant, when what Merlin said hits him. Indignation rapidly turns to sheepishness and he grins, shrugging. “Sorry about that mate. I didn’t mean to yell – so loudly any way. But you know the princess sometimes needs to be taken down a peg – or four.”

Leon, of course, cannot help but rise to the bait. “Stop calling him that – he’s your King!”

“Hasn’t been for a few centuries at least,” Gwaine shoots back, but he never takes his eyes off Merlin. 

Subtle is an art Gwaine has never mastered. 

Merlin shovels in another spoon as Leon, apparently giving up on Gwaine, nudges a mug of tea towards him. “You still prefer tea strong enough to melt metal, right?”

“Cheers,” Merlin says, snagging the mug for a sip. “So,” he sets the mug down, looks into the eyes of the man who led the best of Arthur’s knights. “What’s the damage?”

Leon doesn’t pretend to not understand. “Morgana refuses to come out of her room. Mordred’s not come out either. Arthur’s sequestered in the war room with Gwen.”

Merlin doesn’t miss Lancelot’s wince, the way he tries to bury it with a gulp of hot tea. Everyone, with the experience borne from plenty of practice, pretends not to see it.

“Gaius?” Merlin asks because, even if Gaius is now a child prodigy, he still has a soft spot in his heart that is very much Gaius-shaped.

One side of Leon’s mouth curls up in a wry smile. “Happy as he can be, everything considered. Bedivere is recovering well, last I heard.”

Gwaine smirks at that, even as he steals the last of the bacon off Percival’s plate. “Kay was very happy to hear that, if you know what I mean.” Even as his smirk turns into a leer and he wiggles his brows, everyone rolls their eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me you weren’t thinking it.”

“Not everyone’s mind jumps to sex,” Percival says, very sensibly in Merlin’s opinion, and picks up his mug. 

“He was lucid, when I dropped in this morning,” Leon remarks. “Says he has a report to give. Called Kay Kevin – I’m guessing they know each other in this life.” 

“That happens a lot,” Merlin says, more to himself than anyone else, but the others catch it anyway, and he suddenly has five very sharp, interested pairs of eyes on him. 

“Does it?” Gwaine, never one for self-restraint, asks, leans in as best he can with Lancelot in the way. “I knew you in this life, and Leon was pals with Elyan and Percival, but Lancelot here was all by his lonesome.”

Lancelot rolls his eyes, his usual reaction to Gwaine’s nonsense, and shoves the other man so his elbow isn’t digging into Lancelot’s sternum. “I was not lonesome. Had friends and all. They just, well, they weren’t you lot,” he finishes, obviously embarrassed and Gwaine immediately coos, laughing when Elyan tosses some dry cereal at him to shut him up.

“Was Gwaine always this obnoxious?” Percival asks over the slight commotion. 

“Oi!” Gwaine bats the last of Elyan’s cereal away, snickering when it lands in Lancelot’s tea. Lancelot pushes it away without a word. “’M not obnoxious. I’m charming.”

“Keep telling yourself that mate,” Elyan retorts, pushing a pot of tea Merlin knows the kitchen staff probably didn’t give them towards Lancelot. “Dump your tea in my bowl. I’m done with it.”

“Thanks,” Lancelot says, and pulls Elyan’s bowl towards him. 

“Well Merlin?” Percival asks and Merlin blinks when he realises that the knight hadn’t been distracted by that little exchange. “Was he?”

“Pretty much,” he admits and simply freezes the spoon Gwaine tosses at him. Percival plucks it out of the air. “Erm, you weren’t so bad? In the nineteenth century?”

Elyan’s eyes narrow. “Define not so bad.”

Merlin ducks his head, knowing this is going to land him in hot water, but unable to help himself. Impulse control had never been his forte. “He was mute.”

There’s a beat of silence, long enough that Merlin can sense the people around them looking at their table. Then the knights explode.

Elyan and Percival are nearly doubled over in laughter. Gwaine is protesting at the top of his lungs and Leon and Lancelot are protesting his protestations just as loudly. Elyan says something that Merlin doesn’t hear, drowned in the cacophony, but Gwaine, seated next to him, seems to catch it perfectly, because he turns to yell at him.

It’s descending into chaos that can only be generated by a group of over overexcited knights when a throat clears.

They freeze. Gwaine is in the process of trying to stuff Elyan’s face into a half full bowl of cereal and milk. Lancelot is trying to stop him. Leon is trying not to laugh and Percival is laughing. Merlin is about to use his magic to pour – magically cooled – tea on Gwaine’s head.

As one, they swivel their heads to look at Arthur. Arthur, who is standing by the table, Gwen behind him and slightly to the side. Arthur, who has his arms crossed over his chest and an expression that very clearly says you-are-knights-damnit-act-like-it. 

It’s an expression they are all too familiar with, though for Merlin it’s usually a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look.

“Sire!” Leon bolts upright, nearly tipping Merlin over. Percival manages to catch him before his innate clumsiness has him braining himself on the floor.

“Leon,” Arthur acknowledges before sweeping his gaze over the rest of the knights.

Slowly, Gwaine lets Elyan up and Lancelot settles back in his seat. No one, Arthur included, misses the way his gaze darts to Gwen before skittering away.

Merlin’s heart clenches.

“Leon, with me. The rest of you, training, now. The other knights are waiting. Merlin.” Now Arthur hesitates, stares at Merlin long enough that Merlin has to resist the urge to squirm. “Go see Morgana.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides out.

At his exit, the knights disappear. There’s no other word for it – Merlin turns back around and finds himself sitting at an empty table. 

Gwen’s still standing beside it and since Merlin isn’t looking at her – doesn’t really know what to say to her – the silence gets awkward right fast. 

Merlin hates awkward. He hates awkward silences more, so he grabs his mug, gets up, nearly trips but manages to balance himself in time, and dashes out the dining hall. He’s kind of sure he said something to Gwen before fleeing, but he can’t be too sure and frankly, he doesn’t want to know what he might have said.

He hasn’t really spoken to Gwen since Arthur came back. Scratch that – he hasn’t spoken to Gwen at all since Arthur came back. He knows it’s a horrible thing to do, knows that he should try to at least make nice but – he can’t. He just can’t.

Every time he looks at her, all he can see is Arthur’s face when he found out about Gwen and Lance, all he can see is the devastation in Arthur’s eyes as he watched his wife and best knight sneak out of Camelot, all he can see is Arthur and the shell Gwen left behind. 

And now he has to go see Morgana.

This is not something he’s looking forward to, which is why he’d been planning to put if off for as long as possible but of course, Arthur had to put paid to that plan. Damn him. Just. Damn him.

Merlin sighs because, no matter how much he curses and whines and wishes different, he’s still, essentially, the same Merlin and he’ll do what his King tells him to, unless something better will come of disobeying Arthur.

So he climbs the stairs, taking comfort in his still warm tea as he makes his way to the room Morgana claimed as hers and Mordred’s.

He’s thrown off when it’s the boy who opens the door. Mordred blinks up at him. He blinks down at Mordred. “You made mama cry.”

And that’s just. Great. Just great. He’ll kill Arthur, he will.

“I didn’t mean to?” He winces when it comes out more as a question than a statement, and Mordred’s eyebrows lower, mouth moving into what Merlin will not call an adorable pout. “I didn’t mean to,” he repeats in a more affirmative voice as he hears sounds coming from deeper in the room.

“A ghrá, what did I tell you about opening the door?” A slim hand reaches out, eases the door open a bit more and Morgana stops dead when she sees Merlin.

Her expression makes his stomach churn but he squares his shoulders and says, as formally as he can, “I’ve come to apologise.”

Morgana stares him and Mordred does the same, two pairs of pale eyes taking his measure and using a long enough time that he has to fight not to squirm. Finally, slowly, she steps back, pulling Mordred with her. Merlin takes the invitation for what it is and steps inside.

Morgana closes the door behind him.

Merlin watches Mordred scurry away, to a pile of toys stacked neatly in a corner, before forcing himself to look at Morgana. She looks – she looks tired, and sad, and infinitely more vulnerable than she should have and Merlin only has himself to blame. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says finally, when the silence has stretched too long to even approach comfortable. 

“For what?” She shoots back, tongue as sharp as ever, even as she brings her hands up, rubs at her arms. 

“Not for saying what needed to be said,” Merlin retorts, because he can’t control his tongue and Morgana, like her brother, has always been able to get a rise out of him. He balks at her wounded expression, though it’s quickly hidden. 

“Just, for the way I said it. You didn’t deserve to be yelled at in front of everyone, not after everything you’ve done to help. So. I’m sorry.”

Morgana’s silent for a while. Abruptly, her knees seem to buckle and she sits down on the bed, shooting him a wry smile when he starts forward. “No, I’m alright.” She gives him a long look, one that makes his skin prickle. “You make it very hard to stay angry at you.”

Merlin just stares because Arthur has stayed mad at him for centuries, and Morgana had hated him and he’s pretty sure that to hate someone means you had to be angry with them at one point or another. 

“Yeah?” He finally ventures, since it seems Morgana is expecting an answer.

Morgana sighs. “Yes. I’ll say thanks, for the swift kick that I apparently needed, but I get to still call you jerk – and other names,” she adds with a swift glance at Mordred. Merlin looks too. He’s still occupied with his toys.

“Alright,” Merlin says, cautiously sitting on the bed when Morgana pats the space next to her. He can’t it’s that simple and some of what he’s thinking must show on his face because Morgana lets out a little laugh. 

It’s short and kind of flat, but it’s the first laugh he’s heard from her in centuries.

“We were friends, once,” she says, and, to his shock, takes his hand in both of hers, holds it there. “And I’d like us to be again. I – I’d like friends, again. I miss having them.” She pauses to look over her shoulder, at Mordred again, Merlin presumes.

Merlin keeps his eyes on her face, and the sadness that lingers there. “I had friends, before Mordred came along. And I had friends, back in Camelot. Gwen, you, even Arthur, to some extent.” 

Morgana’s voice is wry when she says Arthur’s name, and Merlin feels his lips curve into a smile, remembering the tumultuous – and yet close – relationship Arthur and Morgana had shared, before madness and jealousy had torn them apart. 

“I miss it. I’d like it again.”

Merlin doesn’t know if he can. There’s too much history, too many years – decades – spent stewing in anger and pain and hate. But he looks in her eyes and suddenly, he’s seeing her, not the Morgana of his memories, but a young woman who maybe had a child too young and had to grow up too fast, who’s lonely and a little scared and trying so hard not to show it.

He finally sees the difference between this Morgana and her past and his heart softens, just a little.

“Alright,” he says, and places his free hand on top of their joined ones, squeezes. “Alright. Let’s try this then.”

She smiles and he grins and, because he can’t leave well enough alone, he blurts out, “this went far better than I expected.”

She laughs again, and this time there is humour in it. “I’ve had time to think, same as you. Time to decide, as well, that I’ll be damned if this life turns out like the last time. I’ve Mordred to think about—I’m not leaving him to be run through. He’s my baby and he deserves the best I can give him.”

As if summoned by the mere mention of his name – and Merlin wouldn’t put it past him because, truth be told, Mordred’s creepy – Mordred appears by Morgana’s knee and placing his chin on it, staring up at them with wide eyes. “Mama said bad word.”

Morgana looks down at him and runs a hand over his hair, her smile so soft and fond and warm that Merlin’s left no doubt of the difference between her two selves. By the end of everything, the Morgana he’d known had been brittle and hard, nothing warm about her.

“That I did, a mhuirnín, and I’ll put a coin in your jar before we leave. Now put on some shoes, we’ve got to go down for breakfast.”

“Jar?” Is all Merlin can think to say as Mordred digs a pair of shoes out from under the bed. 

Morgana shrugs. “It’s something he saw on the telly, some American show where they had a swear jar. A dollar for every curse, or something like that.” As she speaks, she digs out fifty pence and drops it into a little jar sitting on the nightstand. 

“Ready mama!” Mordred’s already at the door, reaching up to tug at the doorknob.

Morgana looks at Merlin, gives him the same soft smile she’d given Mordred, though with about a quarter of the warmth. “Join us?”

And though he’s already eaten and had his fill of tea, Merlin finds himself saying “sure.”


	6. Chapter 6

Things get slightly better after that.

It’s by no means perfect. Morgana and Merlin don’t instantly become the best of friends—they weren’t before and now there’s too much between them, but they do manage to talk without the past ripping shreds out of them. Merlin finds himself warming up to Mordred as well; the boy’s still creepy but there’s something oddly charming about him.

Morgana still avoids the knights as much as she’s able, and Leon continues to get a pinched expression every time her name comes up but the knights are slowly reforming into the cohesive fighting force they’d once been.

Arthur is, of course, part of the reason behind that. He trains them and trains with them, encouraging and sometimes outright bullying them to be faster, stronger, better. The aliens are tougher, scarier, than anything they’ve ever faced before.

And they’re stepping up their attacks. Arthur, Merlin knows, is coordinating both across the nation and worldwide, surprisingly adept considering the first time the mobile he’d been given rang, he’d near thrown it across the room in shock. But, yeah, Arthur’s coordinating and reports are flooding in from all over of attacks increasing from once every few weeks to weekly to almost every other day now.

It runs the knights down. There are others—soldiers—who also go on patrol, who train with the knights and embark on rescue missions based on Morgana’s—unerringly accurate—predictions and dreams. But it’s the knights who Arthur trusts and it’s the knights who are sent out most often.

Merlin goes out with them as often as he can, when Morgana and Gaius can persuade Arthur that Merlin’s powers are absolutely needed. Otherwise, it’s usually Morgana who heads out with the knights and Merlin’s forced to stick close to base, usually with Mordred trailing after him like some odd, magic-wielding, big-eyed duckling.

Gwaine has such a way with words.

Since Merlin’s more often than not stuck at base, he helps out where he can, usually with his duckling in tow. He assists the doctors and nurses in the infirmary, attempts to help in the kitchens until he’s driven out—another reason he loves the modern age; microwave meals are both a stunning invention and a blessing to a man who’d never learned to cook anything more complicated than gruel, and mostly cleans up after the knights and soldiers. 

It takes him back to another time—a time when the base was a castle, and the smell of straw, flowers and horses hang heavy in the air and Merlin was a servant boy, running after an arrogant prince who was slowly learning the painful lessons of modesty and humility.

Those times hadn’t simpler but at least the roles had been set—Merlin the servant boy; Arthur the prince; Gaius, Merlin’s mentor; Gwen the servant girl; Morgana the king’s ward; Leon the knight and other knights, well, scattered to the wind and blissfully unaware of their destiny.

Now, here, Merlin’s not exactly sure where his place is—just that he’s not part of Arthur’s trusted circle of advisors. That, it seems, is now limited to Gwen, Leon and whatever world leaders are still left. So he spends the days he’s not out with the knights around the base and trying not to fume. 

It doesn’t help that he knows Arthur’s watching him, has turned several times because he can feel eyes burning hot holes into his back and found Arthur staring at him—and, often, Mordred—with a closed off, thoughtful expression that Merlin can’t read. 

Can’t read, can’t even guess what it might entail and it’s driving him mad, trying to discern what’s going on in Arthur’s head.

So he focuses on other things because he’s already spent more than a few years being mad and he’s not going back, thank you very much. Right now he’s focusing on the food in front of him rather than the knowledge that Arthur’s sequestered himself with Gwen again.

Having Mordred beside him helps, as the boy’s making noises that Merlin thinks are meant to be dinosaur noises while he devours—there’s no other word for it—the plate of chicken nuggets and chips he’s got. Merlin’s eating—sludge, as far as he can tell. He thinks it’s meant to be stew but the last time he’d seen stew this grey, it’d been back in Camelot, during the unicorn’s curse and he is not thinking of what had gone into that stew.

He pokes at it again, thinks vaguely that the mark he’s made looks like a crescent moon, when the rattle of dishes on trays makes him look up in time to watch Gwaine, Percival and Elyan take seats in front of him. Back from patrol then.

“All right then Merlin,” Gwaine says, once he’s settled everything on his tray to his satisfaction. He can be pickiest about the strangest things.

“All right enough. Everything go okay?”

“Morgana did well,” Lance says, appearing with the woman in question by his side. She doesn’t say anything, just slides onto the bench beside Mordred, smoothing a hand over his dark hair. He turns to smile at her, waving a nugget in the air. “Got us to the town before the aliens got there,” Lance continues, sitting down on Merlin’s other side. “We got everyone out, safe and sound.”

“Stuck them in Baldric’s quadrant,” Percival adds. “He’s plenty of room to house them all, no matter how much he complains. We’re running out of room here.”

As the knights bend their heads to their meals, Merlin sneaks a look at Morgana. This isn’t the first time the knights have invaded Merlin and Mordred’s table, but it’s the first time Morgana hasn’t whisked her boy off somewhere. 

She’s doing a pretty good job of pretending not to care though, giving Merlin a wan smile before turning her attention back on Mordred. Maybe it helps that Leon’s not around—probably gone straight to Arthur to give his report—Morgana’s always extra tense when he’s about, not that he’s much better.

“Leon’s having lunch with the princess and Gwen,” Gwaine says, because he’s part mind-reader, part don’t-give-a-fuck. “Giving his report, going over battle plans, all the things we mere mortals don’t need any knowledge of.”

Everyone on the table—apart from Mordred—tenses. “Gwaine,” Percival warns, and Merlin can’t help but notice how white his knuckles are around his spoon.

Gwaine tosses back his hair, jaw set in a stubborn line Merlin remembers all too well. “What? It’s been months—are we just going to sit around and pretend it’s not happening?” 

Elyan’s mouth works and Merlin’s heart sink because, here’s the truth of it, laid out with Gwaine’s usual brashness. Arthur’s shutting them out, just like he did in Camelot, and the knights are pretending that it’s not happening, too afraid to upset the balance, and Gwaine isn’t paying attention, too distracted with trying to stop Merlin from self-destructing.

Distantly, Merlin swears he can hear another circle click into place. 

“What else can we do?” Lance, ever the peacemaker, asks. “He’s our king and we’re bound by oath to obey him.”

“Mate, he hasn’t been my king for centuries and I didn’t make any oath in this lifetime. He asked,” Gwaine ploughs viciously ahead when Lance opens his mouth to protest, “will you follow me and I said yes, because I still believe in him and what he stands for. Nowhere in there was an oath to blindly obey orders. It’s the fucking twenty first century and things have changed. Things need to change,” he adds and his eyes are blazing bright and drilling into Merlin’s. 

“Things have changed,” Percival points out, nodding not so subtly at Mordred. Morgana does a weird combination of bristling and puffing up with pride. Merlin stuffs a spoon of maybe-stew into his mouth so he isn’t caught smiling. “You can’t deny that.”

“Not enough! No offence,” Gwaine adds with a nod to Morgana, “but not nearly enough. Princess is still keeping shit to himself, isn’t he? He and Gwen, locked up in their precious little war room and not sharing a word of their plans to anyone.” Gwaine’s voice, instead of rising, is instead getting quieter and darker and all the more compelling for it. Merlin’s hands fist around his cutlery as each word stabs him in the vicinity of his chest. “If we don’t watch it, this will be another Camelot and we all know how that turned out.”

Silence reigns. Even Mordred’s gone silent—though that could be because his mouth is full. Morgana fidgets and Merlin can practically see her quash the urge to flee the tension.

Then Elyan leans forward. In Camelot, Elyan had been one of Arthur’s most trusted knights by virtue of being Gwen’s brother. After her betrayal, he had strived to separate himself from her actions, to prove himself still loyal to Arthur. It had worked somewhat, in that he was still a trusted knight but everyone could see how Arthur couldn’t look him in the eye. In the end, he had been one of Arthur’s staunchest defenders, unwilling to disobey or disagree with his king.

“Merlin, could you stick some magic bug in there? Something Arthur or Gwen or Leon won’t find?”

Everyone stares at him. Gwaine—who’d opened his mouth as soon as Elyan had leaned forward—snaps it shut with a click. Elyan stares back at them steadily. 

“Well,” Lance says finally, in an even a voice as Elyan had used, “Merlin, can it be done?”

Merlin’s—Merlin’s not sure actually. He’s still working his magic instinctively, no matter how Gaius hounds him. It’s difficult; to reach though the fog that is his memories, to remember the spells that had helped him master magic, handle it like a surgeon wields a scalpel. It doesn’t help that the only spells he’s used lately are purely to help him create new identities in this technology driven world, along with the occasional memory wipe. Most of the spells Gaius urges him to remember are connected, intricately, with the heady halcyon days of Camelot.

“It should be,” he says finally, when Gwaine’s brows have furrowed and Elyan’s starting to look worried. “It’s just, well, it’s essentially a long-standing eavesdropping spell, yeah? And I haven’t messed with things like that since Camelot.”

“I can help,” Morgana offers and Merlin has to admire how well she hides her flinch when everyone’s attention swings to her. “I mean,” she says, one hand on Mordred’s shoulder as if to steady herself, “I remember working on a few of those back. Well, back then.”

“How does that work?” Merlin asks before any awkwardness can descend. “I mean, do you remember all your lives or—”

“Just two,” Lance says, smiling gently when attention turns to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Morgana visibly relax. “This one and, the first one I guess you could say. Camelot.”

“So,” Merlin gestures aimlessly. This, this is magic he doesn’t really understand. He can wipe memory, restore it but he’s never heard of a spell that can bring back memories of a past life. “How did it work? You saw Arthur and just, remembered?”

“Basically,” Elyan say shrugging and adds, since he’s never been one to release a bone once he’s got his teeth into it, “so it can be done? The magical bug thing.”

“Probably,” Merlin says. “I just need to see if we need to apply it to anything or if it needs to be, you know,” he flaps a hand, “free flow.” Gwaine snorts because he’s secretly a twelve year old and Merlin rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” Percival volunteers, ignoring Gwaine when he starts snickering. “Though I don’t think it means what Gwaine’s pretending it means.”

“It doesn’t,” Merlin says and he knows he sounds prissy and it’s not helping Gwaine control his laughter but Elyan’s looking less tense and Lance is smiling as well so that’s something. “It just means that the spell hangs in the air? And it’ll activate when someone starts talking—but those kinds of spells usually don’t last as long as ones set into objects and they’re usually just for single use.”

“That sounds complicated.” Elyan comments. “I thought magic was just, you know, magic.”

“Magic has logic behind it,” Merlin says. “I mean, it’s a bit topsy-turvy but it’s still logic.” He taps his spoon against his tray. “We should get on it straight away,” he says to Morgana, who’s picking off Mordred’s plates, eating whatever he hasn’t finished. Mordred has moved on to choosing the smallest, most burnt chips.

Morgana nods. “I’ve written down the spells I remember. We can go through them after dinner.”

“So,” Elyan taps a finger on the table, “when do you think you can put it in the war room?”

“Um,” Merlin frowns, casting his mind back as he tries to figure it out. There are a few spells he can think of that might do the trick, even if he can’t remember the exact wording—it doesn’t help that it’s been a few thousand years since he’s spoken the Ancient tongue. Morgana probably has a better grasp of the language since she needs spells to work her magic. “A while? I don’t know—I haven’t done anything like this in a few decades, not since—when did the internet come out?”

“The eighties,” Lance supplies. 

“Then.” Merlin pushes his tray away—he’s done eating and Gwaine’s filched all the best bits anyway. “So, just gimme some time, okay?”

“Take all the time you need mate,” Gwaine says airily, waving what he probably imagines is a regal hand. It’s kind of floppy at the wrist. “Just don’t take too long yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the huge gaps between updates. I'm trying to get better! (Mostly failing but...yeah) Thank you so much for sticking around! Next update is in the works, I swear!


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